Here's to the Losers
by TheJesusFreak777
Summary: "Today he is alone. He has been for eight months. For eight months, it's been nothing but him and Tom and a bottle of gin."
1. Chapter 1

**Merry early Christmas! I've been working on this for a few days, the ending is eh. Please review!**

* * *

><p><em>"Here's the last toast of the evening, here's to those who still believe<em>

_All the losers will be winners, all the givers shall receive_

_Here's to trouble free tomorrows, may your sorrows all be small_

_Here's to the losers, bless them all._

_Hey, Tom, Dick, and Harry, come in out of the rain_

_Those torches you carry must be drowned in champagne."_

_-Here's to the Losers, Frank Sinatra_

* * *

><p>The sun is breaking the horizon over Draco Malfoy's head, cold light filling the room.<p>

He sits on his bed, where he had always roomed in the summers as a boy. A bookshelf beside his bed holds a hapless collection of thick encyclopedias and case studies explaining the justice in prejudice, their broken spines crinkled and pages yellowed from weather.

Today could be the last day he spends in Malfoy Manor. He's not sure if the thought fills him with dread or hope, but there is certainly some type of excited, nervous anticipation knotted in his stomach. No more will he have to be locked in his room, unable to speak to a soul the last eight months. No more will he have to quake with fear at the hearing. The hearing is today. One way or another, he will know his fate before the sun sets.

"Mr. Malfoy," Qesteral says, knocking on his door. "Your hearing begins in one hour."

"Yes, sir," Draco says. Ever since he had been put on house arrest to his room, he had been guarded by Aurors who took rotating shifts. Qesteral is Draco's favorite. The others sometimes refused to feed Draco his meals as adhered by the Geneva Convention, and would refuse to let him out to go to the restroom. Qesteral is nice. Qesteral sometimes even made small talk from where he stood on the other side of the door. They had given him Qesteral for today, because they knew, one way or another, that this could be his last day of house arrest, or the beginning of a longer sentence.

"Mr. Malfoy," Qesteral says again, a hint of urgency in his voice, "We should leave now. Are you ready?"

Malfoy tries to take his time tying his shoelaces. "Quite ready, sir." He stands and puts on his black blazer. He wore his finest suit for today, but had reflected it might have been better to wear his worst, to appeal that he was poor now. But Draco didn't want his freedom to come through deception.

"Mr. Malfoy," Qesteral repeats, knocking on his door this time. "Proudfoot tells me that your mother, Mrs. Malfoy, urges you to ready yourself for the trial."

His parents had been tried a little over a month ago. Narcissa had been placed under house arrest. Lucius had been sentenced to Azkaban for two years.

"I am ready," Draco says calmly.

"Mr. Malfoy, the Wizengamot are requesting your presence now."

"I've got an hour until my trial."

"They moved it up."

Draco stares at his shoes, contemplating yanking open the window and diving out, but the fall would kill him, when he didn't have his wand. It had been taken by the Ministry as soon as he had been taken into custody, and would be returned if and when he was found innocent.

"Why did they schedule it today?" Draco wonders aloud.

"Mr. Malfoy, I would suppose they think you would fancy the outcome as a Christmas present," the Auror says impatiently. "If you do not open the door within five seconds, I'll have to open it myself."

So Draco steps outside into the hallway, his hair combed and parted to perfection, not a hair or lint to be found on his suit. His black leather shoes gleam.

"Well done, Mr. Malfoy," Qesteral says. "I am told to escort you to the Ministry of Magic. We will Apparate." He pulls his wand out of his cloak. It's a long, spindly thing; Draco notices. He links arms with the Auror and screws his eyes shut. Several seconds later, he opens them, seeing that he's in the Ministry of Magic. They're in the lobby, surrounded by witches and wizards traipsing to their offices. Few pay mind to the young Auror and even younger fellow.

"Policy dictates that I bind you hands," Qesteral says, almost apologetically. Draco doesn't struggle as the Auror places a Binding Curse on his arms, keeping his hands behind his back.

"Do you think I'll get off?" Draco asks him. In the past eight months, his friends had dwindled and Qesteral was his only one. He isn't sure if his captor even counted.

"I'm not allowed to give my professional opinion, Mr. Malfoy."

"Do you support the Falmouth Falcons or Chudley Cannons?"

"Falcons. They crushed the Sumbawanga Sunrays last week."

"Do you support Minister Shacklebolt?"

Once again the man became guarded. "I'm not allowed to say, Mr. Malfoy. Carry on."

"Any kids? Wife?

Qesteral glares at him this time. "Continue, Mr. Malfoy."

The fall silent as they pass through various Departments. At last they made it to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Arthur Weasley stands outside of a staircase beside McGonagall. They talk in low voices and stop when they walk past. McGonagall slips ahead and down the stairs, no doubt to wherever the trial will commence.

"If you'd be kind enough to leave the door open for us, Minerva," Qesreral says. She obliges, and sure enough, at the end of the hallway, a door is open into a formidable court. Draco tries not to vomit.

"Sit down on the Accusation chair," Qesteral mutters in Draco's ear. "As soon as the chains bind you, I'll lift the Binding Curse."

The room falls silent as the Court of the Wizenagmot realize they are in the presence of the next accused. Qesteral pushes him forward, and he sits down on the chair, his arms limp behind his back. The chains rattle and wrap around him so tightly his ribs hurt. In front of him, Minister Shacklebolt clears his throat.

"Disciplinary hearing of the twenty-fifth of December, 1998; into offenses committed under the Geneva Convention, Ministerial Decree 17, the First and Second Hague Conventions, International Statute of Curses, Hexes, and Jinxes; and multiple unspecified offenses that took place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry between the years 1991 and 1998, by Draco Lucius Malfoy of Ludgershall, Wiltshire. Interrogators: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic; Percy Ignatius Weasley, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Icarus Titus Undersee, Court Scribe. Malfoy has chosen to defend himself, and is therefore able to call witnesses to the stand. Weasley will give a summary of the charges held against Malfoy."

Percy stands and clears his throat. "Malfoy has been accused of the use of Unforgivable Curses, keeping unspecified prisoners of war without following the Geneva Conventions' outlined laws, doing nothing when Unforgivable Curses were being performed, laundering money to Death Eaters, being a Death Eater, and not following The Hague Conventions when the use of weapons are applied to the wizard community. We will hear from the defense first."

Malfoy swallowed hard, trying to appease the horrible feeling in his gut.

"Did you take the Dark Mark?" Shacklebolt asks calmly, leaning forward.

He doesn't hesitate. "I did."

"How old were you when you took the Dark Mark?"

"I was sixteen."

"Not of age," Shacklebolt muses, his face thoughtful. "However, the Dark Mark has been compared to the biblical Mark of the Devil-once you get it, there's no going back." He stares appraisingly down at Malfoy.

"I beg to differ," Malfoy says, surprising himself at his own boldness. "I deserted the Death Eaters during the Battle of Hogwarts." He rolls his sleeve up, revealing a black skull tattooed into his skin. The court breaks out into mutters. He catches a journalist, Hermione Granger's, eye. She stares back at him with a mix of pity and anger in her eyes. He can't blame her.

"Allegations claim you were a witness to Muggle tortures, as well as the tortures of Garrick Ollivander, Dean Thomas, Luna Lovegood, Hermione Granger, Griphook, Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley, but you did nothing," Percy breaks in.

He stares at the floor this time, shame making his ears go red. He wouldn't forget the day in a hurry, not the tortures of Granger and definitely not what happened after.

"I was there." Draco murmurs. He can't lie, not in front of Granger, and he has no desire to anyway. "Loony-Luna, I mean-and Ollivander had been in our cellar for two weeks when Dean Thomas, Potter, Weasley, Griphook, and Granger were found." He swallows, his throat constricting. "Thomas had been under the Cruciatus Curse, from the looks of it."

No one scarcely breathes in the Court of the Wizengamot. He catches sight of Qesteral sitting a few rows back behind Hermione. His face is twisted into some odd kind of grief and pain.

"Bella, my aunt-" and he cannot keep the disgust out of his voice as he remembers her- "tortured Granger. I was going to do something, I swear on my life. I-I couldn't watch it, I couldn't take it."

Silent tears were streaking her face, and her quill had fallen out of her fingers and sat on the floor.

"Cruciatus Curse. Sectumsempra. Everything you can get a year in Azkaban for. She did it all. And I... I just stood there." He chokes back his shame and tears, trying to keep his decency. He sees Hermione stand and slip out the doors. Percy looks up suddenly as she does, a trace of worry in his eyes as he watched her disappear.

"After they escaped, my aunt performed Unforgivable Curses on me because I didn't do anything to stop them from leaving." It had been the first time he had been under the Cruciatus Curse. It had been hell. He remembers the sensation of his spine ripping in half, of fire and magma turning his veins into heated iron.

"Were you or were you not supposed to murder Albus Dumbledore?" an elderly witch calls.

"I was, but I didn't. I chickened."

"No surprise there," Percy says with a faint sneer. Shacklebolt gives him a warning look before turning back to Draco. "You've confessed to accepting the Dark Mark, keeping prisoners of war, ignoring The Hague and the Geneva Conventions, tortures, supporting Death Eaters, and working with Death Eaters. Do you know how many laws you've broken?" Shacklebolt doesn't sound condescending or angry, just weary. He must do this daily.

"The Geneva and Hague Conventions don't apply to me, do they?"

A journalist in the front gives a shrill laugh. Percy silences her with a swift glare. "The Ministry works with the British Ministry, Mr. Malfoy. They've felt your crime, too." He sifts through papers. "A witness claims you attempted to perform the Cruciatus Curse."

"I attempted," Draco says quietly. "I did not succeed."

Shacklebolt turned to Weasley, and the two engaged in a rapidly spoken whispered conversation. Draco twisted his hands in their cuffs and met Qesteral's eyes. He was expressionless, his gaze frozen.

"Is there any last defense?"

"I did not side with the Dar- He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in the end," he says, but his tone doesn't match his bold words. "I made the correct decision in the end."

Percy laughs mirthlessly. "Typical Malfoy behavior," he says coldly with a sneer. "Let's vote, why don't we? The charges for your crimes, Mr. Malfoy, amount to three years in Azkaban. Because you confessed there is an alternate, where you will have only five years of house arrest, as of the loophole in Ministerial Decree 348."

"All those in favor of three years in Azkaban?" Shacklebolt says. He raises his own hand, as does Percy, and many others. He counts them in his mind, the numbers on his lips as his eyes pass over the hard faces. A witch writes a number on a piece of parchment.

"All those in favor of five years of house arrest, for Mr. Draco Malfoy."

And there are few at first, but as he watches, more raise their own hands-many, many, and Draco does not understand. He doesn't know why-certainly they would like to see him in Azkaban.

"The Wizengamot declares five years of house arrest," Shacklebolt says, while Percy has a rotten expression. He pounds a gavel. The courtroom breaks out into muttering.

The chains don't loosen on his hands until Qesteral comes and releases them. He Binds his arms again.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Malfoy," Qesteral says quietly. Draco doesn't know if he's being sarcastic or not, but he knows something about his captor now.

"You're his father, aren't you?"

"Pardon, Mr. Malfoy?"

He remembers his face as he spoke of Dean to the court. He pieces his hypothesis together. "He doesn't have a father that he knows. He's a Half-blood. You're Dean's father, aren't you?"

Qesteral's grip is so tight on Draco's shoulder that he feels his arm going numb. "It doesn't matter. It was a mistake."

"It's Christmas, Qesteral," Draco says softly. "I've got my gift now, where's yours?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Part two of Here's to the Losers. Please review. This is possibly the best thing I've ever written.**

* * *

><p>H<em>ere's to those who love not too wisely, know not wisely, but too well<em>

_To the girl who sighs with envy when she hears that wedding bell_

_To the guy who'd throw a party if he knew someone to call_

_Here's to the losers, bless them all._

_Here's to those who drink their dinners when that lady doesn't show_

_To the girl who'll wait for kisses underneath that mistletoe_

_To the lonely summer lovers when the leaves begin to fall_

_Here's to the losers, a-bless them all."_

_-Here's to the Losers, Frank Sinatra _

* * *

><p>Dean Thomas was having a shabby Christmas.<p>

Shabby is an odd word to describe the day, but it's the one he finds most fitting. As the Junior Reporter of the Miscellaneous in-training at the Prophet, he hadn't had any good scoops for the past six months, which was how long he'd been working there. What was even more infuriating, he worked under Hermione Granger, whom he'd been determined to somehow outwit for the position of Head Reporter of the Miscellaneous. And she made certain that he got the least of the stories.

Today he sits in front of a typewriter-yes, a typewriter, because the Prophet is too cheap to even give him something to decently type on, but Dean secretly enjoys the old fashioned, sharp script-dumbfounded at what to write. The Miscellaneous section of the Prophet was, well, miscellaneous. It was full of cases that no one else wanted to report, and a few lucky ones, if you infiltrated another department and scrawled your name fast enough next to the trials. It's where all the new and amateur reporters start, and get raises and promotions as they go. "Even Barnabas Cuffe worked in Miscellaneous," Rusty Perry, an American wizard who'd held the same rank as Hermione for nine years, had told him. But how long the editor of the newspaper spent in the lowly compounds of the building, Dean didn't know. He's sure Hermione knows.

Dean longs for the day he gets the story, and not Hermione, but that day won't come unless she were in some freak accident, or until she were promoted to another department. For months he had been forced to work under her, and while she was a very nice boss, she was still his boss. And for months, he had found himself liking her even more, to the point that it was a bit unorthodox and cowardly that he hadn't asked her to dinner yet, but he couldn't-he was supposed to hate his boss. He could see that Ron was a very lucky fellow, to be, more or less (she'd never really said), dating someone like her. Grimly Dean supposes that he might be expected to report their wedding in a few years, as Ron was something of a celebrity, as was she, and Harry would be expected to be the best man. Harry was most definitely a celebrity, a hero, by all definitions. In his mind he wonders what he'd write if he were to attend their wedding for the paper: Mrs. Weasley walked up the aisle in a lovely, white lace and chiffon number that Coco Chanel would envy; Mr. Weasley looked ravishing in a black tuxedo; the bridesmaids, Luna Lovegood and Parvati Patil, were gorgeous in blue velvet-Cindy Crawfords in the making-; and Mr. Harry Potter danced the night away at the reception with bloody Ginny Weasley, the maid of honor and Dean's last failed relationship. Dean almost curses aloud thinking about it. He doesn't much fancy the idea of having to report from his boss's wedding. Perhaps the Prophet would even drag it out into a special issue, the way they did when Diana married Prince Charles.

It's his dream to write for the sports section, or maybe attend trials like Hermione does, or do anything but sit in front of his typewriter on bloody Christmas Day.

It had been eight months since the last time he'd seen Luna Lovegood, which made him feel quite sad. She's traveling the world, the last he'd heard, and she frequently sends him postcards. He has them stacked on his desk. Pictures of clouds drifting below Himalayan peaks, with inscribed messages of snorracks and wimbling dragonbirds. She'd recently sent him a thick envelope full of photographs: there was her in an African village, her atop a high peak in Alaska, a thin sheaf of Swiss chocolate in the bottom of the envelope and an image of her skiing down the Alps alongside a rather nimble and very tall man. Letters mentioning foreign names from Burkina Faso and a zoologist of sorts named Rolf who appeared somewhere near the Matterhorn. Dean thinks she fancies him, and from the sounds of it, he fancies her. There's no twinge of jealousy he feels when regarding the letters and pictures, only sadness. She's moved on from their time at Shell Cottage, when she had become his best friend, and he's stuck living with his mum while his friends are off marrying and camping out at Machu Picchu.

He supposes he's not the only one-Neville Longbottom hadn't done anything exciting lately, apart from killing Nagini and saving the wizarding world before beginning Auror training. Who was he kidding? Even Neville had a more entertaining life than he did.

A travel writer, perhaps. That would be interesting. Maybe if he goes into Muggle publications, he'll have better luck and even find a girl who'd chase Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger out of his thoughts. And if he could travel, he'd travel with Luna and Rolf. He doesn't know Rolf, but he seems nice enough. But maybe if he met them, he'd feel like nothing but a third wheel. Seamus had recently proposed to Parvati Patil, who had been struck blind by a backfired curse during the Battle at Hogwarts, and while he was very happy for his friends, he was still a third wheel. In thirty years he'll probably still be sitting at his desk, the Junior Reporter of the Miscellaneous, unmarried and bald, with a blank page.

A travel writer, yes. He'd be able to get continents away from Miss Hermione Future Weasley and bloody Ginny Weasley. Hell, he might even find someone he loves like he did Ginny.

He'd never really gotten over her, and once or twice when he'd went to visit the Hogwarts grounds and visit the graves, he'd seen her from afar on the Quidditch pitch. Once, while visiting some of his friends who were younger and still attending, he'd come face-to-face with her in the common room.

"Hello, Dean," she had said, in a voice that was friendly but terribly polite.

"Hello," he had said, and then had groped for the right word. In the end he had stammered that he had to go see someone.

These tumultuous thoughts, combined with the fact that he's to write a long-winded report on the Portkey situation in Surrey, result in a blank page.

There's a rap at his door and he merely grunts as to signal for them to come in. His mother appears. "Dean, you should come down and eat with us," she says kindly. "Anna and Margo are waiting for you."

Anna, who was fifteen, had recently developed an acute interest in snapping at him at every turn and admiring Rachel Weisz's hair; and Margo, who was ten, had begun to talk nonstop about the football league at her primary school. And while neither were very appealing at the moment, he decides they're better than being frustrated at his writers' block, and he follows his mother downstairs.

"Nice of you to show up," Anna says snappishly from where she sits on the couch, looking distinctly angry at having to take part in family activities.

"Hey," Todd, Dean's stepfather, says warningly. He nods to me. "Dean, there's food in the kitchen, we'll all be eating in here today."

"Grandma's coming in a bit," adds his mum.

He goes into the kitchen and fixes himself a plate of turkey and mashed parsnips, which he drowns in gravy. He returns to the living room. His family lounges around the television, watching corny Christmas movies and flipping through the channels. Dean checks his watch, wondering when Grandma will be there.

His family know very well that he's a wizard, as it would have been rather difficult to keep a secret like that from his own parents and siblings. "A few owls came in earlier with presents for you, Dean," Todd says.

"Why don't we open our presents now?" Margo asks eagerly.

So they do. Anna makes a big show about the clothes she got, and Margo begins to kick a football around the house until she almost breaks a cabinet. Dean unwraps several books and clothes from Todd and his mother. He finds the packages the owls brought closest to the trunk of the Christmas tree. There's a brown paper parcel tied with twine, papered in stamps, and a box covered in red. He opens the red one first and finds a new Wizarding chess set and a Puddlemere United Quidditch cloak. The note attached to the cloak reads,_ Puddlemere's playing next week. Parvati and I are going and stumbled across an extra ticket. -Seamus_

Sure enough, in one of the deep pockets of the cloak, is a paper ticket and a small paper that holds a picture of the Puddlemere team. Dean grins and moves on to the brown parcel and instantly recognizes Luna's handwriting. He undoes the paper on it and finds several Tibetan spellbooks, a small package of odd-looking dinner rolls from India, and a book on international Quidditch teams. There's also a folded letter, which he quickly opens.

_Dear Dean,  
>Rolf and I have encountered traces of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack in Niihau. We expect it to be of a more tropical variation. Expect pictures of the creature soon. We are spending the Christmas here in Hawaii, and while the weather is quite nice and Rolf makes a decent travel companion, it's lonely. I miss Daddy terribly, as well as all of my friends. I'm reminded of the time we spent in Shell Cottage with Bill, Fleur, Mr. Ollivander, Griphook, Harry, Ron, and Hermione. I'm not quite certain why, but I miss those days. The D.A. gave me the illusion of friends for a brief period, but I forged real friendships through circumstances that came. I've also written to tell you that I will be attending a gala in Venice with the International Federation of Notable Witches and Wizards-Daddy made the rankings and I was invited as well-and having not seen you since I saw the kappa in Hogwarts's gardens, I'm inviting you. I'll send you the specifics later.<br>Yours truly,  
>Luna Lovegood<em>

Dean's surprised to feel tears springing to his eyes, but he quickly blinks them away and folds the letter back up.

"Who's that from?" Anna asks, a vindictive tone to her voice. "Your girlfriend?"

"Mind your own fucking business," he replies flatly. Todd doesn't reprimand him, which is a surprise.

He wonders where his friends are spending their Christmases-Seamus is undoubtedly with Parvati, perhaps helping teach her Braille; Luna is off galavanting the globe, currently somewhere in Hawaii; and Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione must all be at the Burrow. He tries to push any thoughts of them out of his mind and fails miserably.

But he's been invited to Venice! He's certain he can write an article on the ball, and this will be his first destination in a career of travel! He's got tickets to watch the upcoming match, cheer for Oliver Wood, the esteemed Keeper!

No, Dean was certain he wouldn't let being single and Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley pull his day down the gutter.

The doorbell rings, and Todd moves to answer it. "Grandma must be here," he says. He opens the door. On the television, a reindeer wearing a jumper dances.

"Dean, it's someone for you," Todd calls.

Seamus and Parvati? Luna, and her letter had been a sham? "Who is it?" he asks, standing.

"Someone named Quentin?"

Dean's mother stiffens in her chair. "Quentin?" she echoes. She gives him a hard look before standing and heading over to Todd. "Quentin!" she shrieks suddenly.

"Who?"

Margo and Anna shrug and continue doing what they were. He stands and goes to the door, bemused. He stops at the sight in front of him: a tall, black man in a gray cloak stands on the porch, his mother crying softly.

"I thought you were dead," she whispers.

"I lived," the man says quietly.

A look of understanding dawns on Todd's face, but Dean doesn't know why.

Quentin, the man, looks past Dean's mother and Todd. "Dean," he says. His voice is choked. "It's me, Dean."

"Who are you?" he asks quietly, his hand in his pocket, ready to pull his wand out if he needed to.

Quentin extends an arm and shakes his hand. "Quentin Qesteral. Your father."

* * *

><p><strong>Super proud of this! Please review! Also, I was wondering on something: should I continue this as a continuation of this story, or separate snapshots, so to speak, of everyone's first Christmas after the war?<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three. Please review, and I want to say thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far. I'm currently listening to the Casting Crowns version of I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day and weeping. My prayers go out to the people of Pakistan and that God will heal our broken world. If there is anything we need more than anything, it is Peace. May everyone have a blessed Christmas celebrating Jesus's birthday. Xoxo.

* * *

><p><em>"I heard the bells on Christmas Day,<br>Their old familiar carols play,  
>And wild and sweet the words repeat<br>Of peace on earth, goodwill to men!  
>Then from each black, accursed mouth<br>The cannon thundered in the South,  
>And with the sound the carols drowned<br>Of peace on earth, goodwill to men!  
>It was as if an earthquake rent<br>The hearth-stones of a continent,  
>And made forlorn the houses born<br>Of peace on earth, goodwill to men!  
>And in despair I bowed my head;<br>'There is no peace on earth,' I said;  
>'For hate is strong, and mocks the song,<br>Of peace on earth, goodwill to men!"  
>-I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, Henry Wadsforth Longfellow<em>

* * *

><p>They say that Christmas is for the Child who saved the world, the Prince of Peace. But from what he can tell, there's not much peace in the world. Either that, or God must have a grudge against him. He's never been very religious. He'd been baptized at eight and had since drifted from his old ways, but now he doesn't know. There is a god, he decides, but he doesn't know if he wants to follow Him.<p>

Outside the Leaky Cauldron, sludge sits on the walk and new flakes begin to dust the ground. He's thankful that inside, he's away from the blistering cold and all-too-cheerful carolers.

Even Tom, the bartender, is festively dressed and in high spirits as he pours another whiskey. "Aye, what're ya doin' here today?" he asks warmly, but there's a layer of curiosity underneath it.

"A drink, Tom," he says.

Tom sighs rather loudly and obliges. He wears a Santa hat and a particularly hideous sweater. "Ah, you shouldn't be cooped up in here today." At that moment, a very large family bustles in and Tom goes to get their orders, relieving him of an awkward discussion. He drinks his whiskey, relishing the fire in its taste as he swallows.

Once, he would've laughed if someone told him that he'd spend Christmas alone on purpose, but today isn't that day. Today he is alone. He has been for eight months. For eight months, it's been nothing but him and Tom and a bottle of gin.

Tom's assistant, a boy called Leo, no older than fifteen, who's been working the holidays, comes by and refills his cup. "Do you hear what I hear?" he asks him quietly, but with a singsong note to his voice.

"Hear what?" he responds irritably. He's got to patience for Leo today.

"Haven't you heard the song? It was a joke," Leo says, sounding somewhat crestfallen. "You know, Bing Crosby and all that-'goodness and light.'"

"Goodness and light," he mutters darkly, recalling the lyrics to the song. "Yeah right."

"Don't be a Scrooge," Leo says lightly, refusing to have his mood dampened. "Haven't you stood under the mistletoe? Tasted the peppermint and ginger?" The boy speaks with nostalgia and feigns wisdom of a much older man.

He laughs. "Sure, Leo. Whatever floats your boat."

"It does float my boat, I'll have you know," Leo says sharply, but his eyes hold an amused twinkle. Leo goes off to serve the family who'd arrived, leaving him to dwell in peace.

Quelling any sense of celebration with his drink, he's left to think of why he is alone on Christmas Day. He knows that he's probably worried his mum and pissed off his brothers, but he suddenly realizes how little he cares. He sips his apathy and sleeps it off at night. Nothing has changed.

Eight months ago, George Weasley's brother was killed. And today he spends Christmas in a bar. And today he does not believe there will ever be peace.

He reads the Daily Prophet as well as he can with his mind half-sluggish. The headline reads that the Malfoy trial is today. They picked a bad date for it, if one thing's certain. Briefly he wonders if Percy is there, and Hermione, but then he pushes all pretense of the matter out of his mind.

He remembers Fred all too well; he misses him even more. Not a day goes by when he doesn't try to drown his despair in a bottle of gin.

"You know," George hears Leo tell the family, "I've seen Santa. He stopped in here last night as a pit stop."

George hates who he is, and George has been told by his therapist that he's going about his feelings the wrong way. He keeps them pent up inside, not even voicing them to himself in thought. He normally cries himself to sleep. He's pathetic. There have been days when he finds himself standing atop the underpass just outside of Diagon Alley, contemplating his next move, like some kind of chess game.

"Peace on earth, goodwill to men," the carolers sing.

George hunches over his drink and hides his face, not daring to run the risk of being recognized. He doesn't want to feel their pity. He doesn't want to feel anything anymore.

He'd loved him so much, and in a millisecond everything he'd loved had been ripped out of his grasp.

No, there is no peace on earth. The Malfoy trial, Fred's death, the war, all of it. Bloody hell.

The bells outside ring from another avenue; the belfry sings its song as he drinks to the likes of Henry Wadsforth Longfellow. Perhaps he's wrong. Perhaps there is peace, now, however short-lived it is. His peace comes from his drinking.

There's nothing.

The door opens with a burst of cold air and there are footsteps leading towards him. George fights his rising panic as they sit next to him-what if they recognize him? What if they pity him, too? He turns away from them, his heart racing in his chest for no reason. He doesn't want them to see him. He doesn't want to burden them.

He hears one of them begin to talk, and he's even more dismayed. It's Dean Thomas. Holy hell. He's trapped in the Leaky until he leaves, on Christmas Day, and there's minimal possibilities he'll be able to sneak out or go the entire time without being seen, as just a chair away Dean Thomas and another sit together.

"You know," he hears Dean say, "you should've come back before today."

"I wanted to, lots of times," he admits. "I left when your mother found out she would have you, because the war was starting, and you two might've been in danger."

"You never came afterwards."

"I wanted to. By the time the war had ended, she'd remarried."

Dean's voice is colder than ice, and George shifts uneasily. "So I was never supposed to know who my own biological father was? So you were just-just a sperm donor?"

He wonders if he should move, to quit eavesdropping on a blatantly serious and personal conversation. But then he decides there's no way he can do that subtly, and stays where he sits. The weather outside is biting as well, discouraging him from leaving. He flips his jacket's collar up and looks down at the counter, hoping that perhaps they'll overlook him.

Leo returns with another whiskey, this time silent. George watches as he begins to wipe the countertop off with a rag, his eyes unfocused. He wonders for a moment what the boy is staring at before following his gaze to a girl sitting at the table with her family. She's maybe fifteen, and very pretty. Leo gives her a crooked smile, and she rolls her eyes. George stifles his laughter and pulls a deck of cards out of his coat pocket. Lately he had taken to going to the pubs and casino closer to the heart of London and playing rummy and blackjack and poker, but solitaire is his favorite and the one he plays most often. He shuffles the cards and lays them out in front of him and begins to play.

Dean and his father don't say anything for a long time. George is glad. He turns over a card and sighs when it's the six of hearts. He needs the five.

After maybe ten minutes of acute and uncomfortable silence, Dean says, "You never came back. You never did."

"You've got to understand," his father, the other guy, says desperately. "After the war I had to stay in a hospital in Germany for two years. By the time I returned your mother was married with another baby on the way."

"That's no excuse!" Dean snaps, so loudly that Leo recoils and Tom looks up from where he takes orders.

"That's no excuse," Dean repeats, his voice dropping so low that George has to strain to hear. He hates that he's listening. It makes him feel dirty, like a criminal. "If you really wanted to know me, you would've come before today." The disgust in his voice is evident. "You never came back. You never came back."

"Please," the other man whispers.

"I have a job now. I have a life. You haven't bothered to be in it until now." Dean looks past his father and meets George's eyes; inwardly George cringes and it takes all of his being not to flinch away.

He sees the shock in Dean's eyes at seeing him as a drunk cardturner, the pity. He sees his eyes harden with anger and mistrust, and George clenches his tumbler so hard it shatters. Leo looks up curiously. Tom glances over.

Dean furrows his brows and shakes his head before turning back to his father. "I have to go," he says abruptly.

"Give me another chance," he pleas.

"You know where to find me, if you want," Dean says icily, standing. "I've got places to be." George's heart sinks as he makes his way towards him. Dean halts in front of him and stares at the cards and spilt drink.

"Fucking mess," Dean whispers. "You don't belong here."

He splutters for words. How can Dean understand? How can he? George is more at home in a bar with a bottle of spirits than at the Burrow.

Dean pushes the door of the Leaky open and trudges out into the falling snow. George watches as he leaves his sight. Leo raises an eyebrow.

"Who are you?" Dean's sperm donor-that's what he'd called him, hadn't he?-demands, glaring at him from his seat.

George struggles for a word. "Just half a soul," he manages, his voice croaking and quavering. He puts a few Sickles on the counter, leaves his cards, and pushes the door open. The air is cold on his face and his eyes sting as the wind rips through the street. He hears people singing from another street.

Peace on earth. Goodwill to men.

He'd never been wronger before in his life, because he knows what he needs to do now. He can make peace. Wand outstretched, he steps forward to Apparate to the Burrow.

* * *

><p><em>"Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:<br>'God is not dead, nor doth he sleep!  
>The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,<br>With peace on earth, goodwill to men!'  
>Till ringing, singing on its way,<br>The world revolved from night to day,  
>A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,<br>Of peace on earth, goodwill to men!"  
>-I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, Henry Wadsforth Longfellow<em>

* * *

><p><strong>This is probably my favorite Christmas carol ever, and it makes me cry every time I hear it. Check out the version by Casting Crowns, you won't regret it. The story behind the song is phenomenal as well. I want to say thanks to Patronus12 and xSiriusly Insanex for reviewing, as it motivated and inspired me on how to write this. Luna will be in later (if I continue this that long), don't worry. Please review!<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Part four. I've honestly had trouble playing off of the last chapter, so bear with me. I've also just watched Guardians of the Galaxy (Chris Pratt holy crap) so I'm sorry if this seems really jumbled (blame Chris Pratt). I want to say thanks to xSiriusly Insanex (I'm not sure if I really classify Hallelujah as a Christmas song, but I love it. My favorite is the Jeff Buckley version), DreamaLirit, and slycunningslytherin for reviewing. You guys are the best. I also really want to thank a Guest reviewer for not being very lenient towards me, and for bringing it to my attention of the language in this chapter. I changed most of the foul stuff to milder vocabulary. So thank you.**

* * *

><p><em>"I'll be home for Christmas,<em>

_You can plan on me._

_Please have snow and mistletoe_

_And presents on the tree._

_Christmas Eve will find me_

_Where the lovelight gleams._

_I'll be home for Christmas,_

_If only in my dreams."_

_-I'll Be Home For Christmas, Bing Crosby_

* * *

><p>The Burrow isn't as crowded as Charlie had thought it would be.<p>

But then again, it was stupid for him to think everyone would show.

"Hi Mum," he says, grimacing as she kisses him on the cheek. He tries not to notice how tight her grip is on his arm, or the way her face sags and the dark circles around her eyes.

"I'm so glad you're home, honey," she says, smiling, but it seems forced. Not only forced, but her bottom lip trembles, the way it does before she cries. He'd seen her cry enough to know.

"Glad to be here, Mum." He glances around over her shoulder to see who's here. Harry and Ron are, as well as Bill and his pregnant wife, and Ginny, but that looks like it...

Charlie sits down next to Ron on the couch and leans over, his voice lowered so that it was barely over a whisper. "Where's Percy, Hermione, and the twins?"

Ron recoils. "I can't believe you just asked that."

"Asked what?" Charlie asks dumbly.

"The twins," Ron says angrily.

He blinks. "I didn't mean-"

"Yeah, well screw you," he says coldly. "It was bad enough that you didn't even come to his funeral, but you can't go making jokes about it."

He hates that he slipped up-it really had been unintentional, and he really does miss his brother-but Ron will refuse to listen to him no matter what. So he sits back and thinks of the flask in his coat pocket, and that he only needs to sneak out of the house for several minutes to get a drink.

"You know," Ron says after several tense minutes, "it's good at least you showed up."

"Where's everyone else at?"

"Hermione and Percy are at a trial. George is..." Ron trails off uncertainly. "George isn't here."

"Where is he?"

"Where've you been for the past few years."

For a moment Charlie thinks he means Romania, which in hindsight is a very dumb theory.

"In a bar," Ron elaborates.

"I'm sober," Charlie lies.

"Sure," Ron says with a snort. "That'll be the day."

"What's gotten your panties in a twist?"

"Mum," he mutters under his breath. "And George."

"There's nothing wrong with them," Charlie says.

"Funny."

There's nothing funny about it, and Charlie wonders briefly if Ron is as damaged as George and himself. There's a bitter edge to his voice.

The lights glimmer from the Christmas tree and give off a pale yellow glow. He remembers all the years he spent here with Fred and George and Bill and Percy. Ron had been much younger than them, and Ginny hadn't even been born yet. The twins, who had been five, had just begun to show signs of magic. Fred caused a lightbulb to explode on Percy, catching his hair on fire, and then the entire string of lights had burnt out, short circuited.

"Why's there a trial today, on Christmas?"

"It's a Malfoy trial," Ron says, which does nothing to answer Charlie's question, and his eyes smolder with anger. "I hope the bastard goes to Azkaban."

"Hmm," Charlie says. He doesn't really know much about the Malfoys, having never attended school with one or paying much attention to gossip and being less than present at most of the Order's meetings. Ron doesn't say anything for a few more minutes, and neither does he. Harry and Bill are talking about the Tornadoes' last match versus Puddlemere. Charlie manages to sneak upstairs for his coat (and more importantly, his flask, located in the pocket on the left side) by saying he has to go to the bathroom. He finds his coat in the closet amidst a heap of other jackets and ripping the flask out.

He recalls Malati, slamming the door in his face when he had went to visit her two days ago. He wonders what she'd do if she saw him now, sneaking firewhiskey into his parents' house on Christmas Day.

_"You have a problem, Charlie."_

_"Malati, give me another chance. Please."_

_"I have given you another chance. Many, to be exact. I'm sorry, Charlie, about your brother and everything, but I-I can't. You need to get help._"

Thinking of her hurts. It hurts almost as much as thinking about Fred and George's "nonexistent" problems. He'd really loved her. They had been coworkers for nearly four years, and she remained to be the only female employee at the International Dragonology Institute he hadn't had sex with yet. They'd been dating for six months-which stands to be the longest relationship he'd ever had-when Fred died. And since, he'd been visiting bars more frequently than he already had been, and even coming to work intoxicated more than once.

There was something about Malati that he loved, something he'd never came across in any of his other flings. She was _pure_. Saving herself for marriage and everything, but what it was with her was rooted far beyond anything physical. He didn't understand it, but he sure as hell knew that he'd let the best thing he'd ever had slip through his fingers.

Once, before they'd started dating, she had scoffed at him. Called him a "budding alcoholic." At the time he'd snorted and the thought had never occurred to him again. After all, no one else seemed to have a problem with his partiality towards drink before. He's Charlie Weasley, Quidditch extraordinaire, smartest kid in his year at Hogwarts, and could get shit-faced one night and ace his exams six hours later. He's the life of the party. The Gryffindor King. So what if he knows how to hold his liquor, and is exceptionally good at taking shots of tequila?

Apparently all that had meant a lot to Malati, anyway. So he'd mostly sobered up, keeping himself to a minimal amount of alcohol consumption, just for her, because that was how much he'd liked her. The war had been going on for almost six months in Britain, but no Death Eaters had actually strayed towards that half of Europe. Then he'd gotten word of the battle about to begin at Hogwarts from the Floo network, and off he'd went, and off he had watched his little brother die.

_"There's other things you can do for grief," Malati had told him_.

The one thing about him she failed to understand was grief. Malati has two sisters who are alive and breathing. Malati has parents who love her very much. Malati doesn't know loss.

_"I don't want you to drink! I don't want you to get yourself hurt!" she'd told him, in a mixture of a shout and a cry._

_"I won't get hurt, I never do," he'd replied._

_"I love you. Be safe,"_ she had said defeatedly as he left to go to a party. A party with plenty of drinking and lots more, with Muggles and wizards alike. There was meth and heroin and cocaine, things he warily kept his distance from. He had drank more than what he needed and made a fool of himself. That was the difference between he and George. Charlie likes the attention, Charlie wants to be the center. George is withdrawn. George hates the world. George has nothing.

In hindsight, he'd been a bad role model. A bad big brother.

Charlie loves Malati. Charlie loves whiskey, too, something the Weasley family is damn well acquainted with now. Before it had all been in Romania. They hadn't known about it.

But George... George doesn't want this. He shouldn't want this, anyway.

He takes the flask out of his coat pocket and downs a portion of its volatile contents.

She won't take him back. He'd tried. But he misses Fred too much, and he has too much shame. So he drowns his sorrows and guilt in the only way he knows: in stemmed flutes of champagne and bottles of cheap gin, with music blaring from speakers behind him and strippers dancing half naked around him and headaches that won't go away for days.

It's all batshit. It's crazy that he's an alcoholic and it's crazy that George is, too. It's crazy that Malati left him. It's complete and utter shit that yesterday he sat on the railing of a bridge, overlooking the Danube, trying to summon the courage to let go.

And he couldn't even do it. King of Gryffindor and all.

He takes another sip out of his flask and slips it back into his coat. It has to last him the whole day.

He gets back downstairs to find Percy and Hermione back and discussing the trial. The outcome must've been bad, because Ron looks pissed.

"What happened?" he asks Harry quietly.

"Malfoy got out of Azkaban. Got five years of house arrest."

Hermione's hands are shaking. He's standing five feet from her and he can see it. Something bad must've happened at the trial. Ron must see it too, because he grabs her hand. Jealousy courses through Charlie's veins. He and Malati had been like that. No more, though.

"How'd he get out of it?"

"Confessed upright. There's a loophole in a decree about confessions, changes up the sentences some. Azkaban would've been good for him." Percy sounds disgusted.

"I can't believe it," Ron says angrily.

Charlie sits down, beginning to grasp the story of what happened in fragments. Malfoy was present when Hermione was tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange. Malfoy tortured Muggles. He tried to murder Dumbledore on several accounts. In short, short he was a dick. Mum seems relieved by the distraction. Dad frowns slightly at the talk of the trial but doesn't speak.

"I don't get it," Bill says. "He confesses and he gets out of Azkaban? How is that even legal?"

"It's not. The decree's been in the Wizengamot for nearly a year and they haven't changed it."

"They need to get off their asses and do something."

"In France we had nothing like thiz," Fleur agrees.

Suddenly there's a knock at the door, and we all go silent. "Who could that be?" Dad asks, confused.

"Probably Muriel," Mum grumbles. "I'll get it."

Aunt Muriel. Charlie hopes to God not.

"Percy, why don't you just try to push the decree through anyway? Don't you have the authority?"

"Not even Shacklebolt has that authority."

Mum drops her eggnog and the cup shatters on the floor.

"What is it?"

"George!"

"George?!"

"George is here?!"

Everyone stands up and seems to rush to the door, and he stands wedged between Ginny and a very pregnant Fleur, which isn't exactly the best place to be.

And there, in the doorway, is George, wearing a ragged coat and reeking of alcohol, hugging Mum, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I miss you," he sobs. "I love you. I miss you. I love you. I miss him, I miss him so much."

* * *

><p><strong>Hope that The Lord blesses everyone through this Christmas season, and that everyone remembers the real reason for the season. Thanks to anyone who reads, reviews, favorites, or follows this story.<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Part five. This is probably the only normalish Christmas I've written about yet, so if it's dull, I'm sorry**_._

* * *

><p><em>"Don't let the night become the day,<br>_

_Don't take the darkness to the grave._

_I know pain is just a place. _

_The will has been broken._

_Don't let the fear become the hate,_

_Don't take the sadness to the grave. _

_I know the fight is on the way."_

_-Keep Your Eyes Open, NeedToBreathe _

* * *

><p>Parvati's hands hover over a punched in letter. She runs her finger over it one more time, hesitating, her sightless eyes screwed shut in concentration. "O, right? This one's 'O'?"<p>

"Yeah! Really good," Seamus tells her. There is real happiness, real enthusiasm in his voice. It makes her smile. "So what does that word say?" he prompts.

She runs her finger over it again, pausing after every letter. "God," she says firmly. "The next says..." She does the same for it. "Bless. 'God bless.'"

"It's from me mum," Seamus continues. "This card is, I mean, so you know that she just rambles for the rest of it." She hears him put the card back in its envelope and placing it atop the stack of others.

"What color is your mum's card?" she asks.

"It's blue. Pale blue, like snow under a sunset, and it fades into a midnight. There's a painting of a little white house in the snow, and the Star of Bethlehem is above it some ways."

"It sounds beautiful. What color ink did your mum use?"

She hears him flipping over the envelope. "White, and the envelope is dark blue, too. She wrote in cursive."

"That's very lovely," Parvati says. She takes the envelope this time and places the card back inside. "You'll have to tell me what else your mum said in it."

For eight months Parvati's life had been this: learning Braille, learning faces, learning footsteps, and piano. Padma and Seamus often rotated turns helping her; having to work around their own schedules. Padma is starting Healer training, while Seamus is beginning his extra Charms training for Curse-Breaking.

"D'you want to go to the living room now?" he asks. "Padma's here, and your sister'll be here soon."

"Okay," she agrees, standing. Parvati knows her way around the house well, and she doesn't even stagger as she traipses down the hall, Seamus close behind her.

"Padma, Seamus, do you mind helping me set the table?" her mother asks.

"No problem," Seamus says, and she feels his eyes rest on her until she finds her seat. She hears Padma sigh and shift her feet off of the table where they had been resting, and then the two head to the dining room, the carpet muffling their steps. Parvati only wishes that Mum would trust her enough to help them. She listens to the clatter of silverware and hears Padma curse quietly under her breath, and Seamus laughing. Mum has a rule in the house: no cooking or cleaning could be done by magic. Mum was born a Muggle.

"Have you heard from Dean recently?" she asks as Seamus sits back down beside her.

He frowns. "I talked to him a few days ago, invited him over here for Christmas. Said he had some big article to finish and couldn't make it."

"Shame." She and Seamus had been concocting a plan-a very mediocre and fantastical plan, but a plan nonetheless-to ensure that both Padma and Dean somehow ended up together, to put an end to the both of them's moping. Dean seems to like Padma-of course he would, because Padma had began to follow their elder sister's footsteps and done modeling for Witch Weekly recently-but Padma viewed him with poorly concealed disdain.

"He's a pig," Padma had protested one night, as Parvati was beginning to learn a new Einaudi melody on the Steinway. Earlier that day they had went to dinner at the Three Broomsticks with Seamus and Dean, and there had been implications of the two third wheels becoming a couple.

"He is not. He's a very nice fellow and he just works too often," Parvati had answered, as her finger slipped awkwardly off of a C sharp onto a B major. "I'm tired of hearing you complain."

"He does literally nothing but work," Padma had retorted, and Parvati could almost see her sister rolling her eyes. "It's all he talks about. Why would I want to date someone who does nothing but work? And he dated you in our fifth year. That'd be so weird."

"He likes you."

"Whatever." But there had been a sort of hopefulness in her voice.

She smiles now thinking about it. Her sister is stubborn, with a tongue sharp enough to deafen ears. Privately Parvati wonders why Dean would fancy her sister, who scorns and scoffs at him. But today isn't the day to mull over the mysteries of her and her workaholic friend. Today is Christmas, and she will celebrate it so.

"Where's Dad?" she wonders aloud.

"Getting your sister from the Portkey," Mum answers.

"Why couldn't she just Apparate down?" Padma asks, an incredulous note to her voice, mixed with something of irritation. Padma has no patience, no mercy, for their older sister, who lived somewhere farther east and only visited on Christmas and Easter.

"She's got too many bags to Apparate," Parvati says tartly, as a joke, and she can almost see Padma grin. Malati is too vain, a fact they both knew very well.

"Probably," Padma agrees.

"What color is my shirt today?" she asks.

"Why would it matter to you?" Seamus asks curiously, while Padma laughs.

"I just want to make sure I make a good impression on Malati and her man," she answers. They'd last heard from her about a week ago, and that she had met a man (whose name she hadn't given) who she thought was "the one," and that they would both be visiting.

"You're wearing a white sweater, Parvati, and you look gorgeous," Seamus says, and she feels his finger tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

"I haven't seen Malati in ages," Padma says, and then, inexplicably, Parvati knows that she's looking at her.

"Me either," she responds, but something in the air seems to have been killed, and the room seems electrically charged. There were times when people slipped up and would say something like, "Did you watch the match?" or better yet, something like, "Her dress is so pretty, don't you think so, Parvati?" Perhaps going blind is something easy to overlook, or forget, but sight is a touchy subject in the Patil household.

There's a knock at the door and she feels Seamus move beside her. "I'll get it."

"Frank should have his own key," Mum says with a sigh. "I don't know why he's got to knock."

"Must be Malati's bags," Padma says snidely.

Seamus opens the door and a burst of cold air gusts in. She hears her father grunt and say, "Seamus, help me with these, why don't you?"

"No problem, Frank," Seamus says, but his voice is distinctly muffled. "What is this stuff, anyway?"

"Presents," says a new, female voice. It's very pleasant to hear, a sort of rich, singsong accent. In a rush, Parvati remembers remembers hearing that voice as she had slumbered, unconscious in a comatose state, in a St. Mungo's Spell Damage ward. She'd never distinguished the words at the time, just heard them, very faintly, in the back of her mind. Somehow, it had woken her up, because less than an hour later, she discovered that she was blind.

"Malati!" Padma says, and despite all of our teasing of her, there's something joyous in her voice.

Parvati listens for a third set of footsteps, but it doesn't come. "Where's your man at?" Padma adds.

"He couldn't make it," Mulati says guardedly.

"Why not? Who is the chap, anyway?"

"Charlie Weasley."

"You're kidding!" Seamus exclaims.

"No," Malati says, confused. "Why would I joke about that?"

"I went to the Yule Ball with his brother," Padma says. "He was a boring date."

"I lived in the same dorm with Ron for six years," Seamus adds.

"I went to the Yule Ball with him," Padma repeats importantly.

"Well, he couldn't make it," Malati continues, a sharper quality to her tone now. "We had a row, and he's got other things to do, anyway."

"The git," Padma says.

"I don't care much," Malati answers. "We've not been dating too long." Which is a lie, because when she'd visited on Easter, she'd mentioned something about dating a man with red hair.

"Well," Mum breaks in, before we can begin discussing the physics of Mulati's failed relationship, "the food's done and laid out in the kitchen. Get what you want."

"What do you want?" Seamus asks her. "I'll go fix you a plate."

"Turkey, mashed potatoes, chestnuts, and stuffing. And gravy. Is there any bread pudding?"

"I made some," Padma chimes in.

"Get me some of it, too," she tells Seamus. He stands and for a brief minute or two, she has the entire living room to herself as everyone fills their plates with cranberries and sausage.

The past eight months had been hard to adjust to. Painful. She had used to pride herself in her looks, her hair, her sharp cheekbones, flawless skin; and she and Padma had dreamed of the days after Hogwarts when they could step in Malati's already large footprints in the modeling business at Witch Weekly and Potioneer's Perfection. Now she couldn't even see herself in the mirror, and her sister had been left to live their dream herself.

It's all very vain, but it makes Parvati sad. She could imagine colors in her mind, but even they were beginning to fade. The most recent image of her she can conjure up is one taken on Neville Longbottom's camera in their sixth year. He had just bought a charmed camera from Diagon Alley, one that printed the type of moving pictures in the Prophet, and it had a timer. He had quickly pressed the button and jumped back to join the photo, where Lavender, Ron, Dean, and Seamus were waiting. It had turned out a bit blurry because Neville timed his leap poorly. But it had been happy. It had been the day before Christmas break began, and Ron and Lavender had long been pushing the PDA limits and Hermione had spent every waking moment in the library with Harry.

It makes her very sad to think about, because she had been very happy then. And now Lavender is dead, and Neville, Ron, and Harry are becoming Aurors with packed schedules, and she rarely sees Dean, unless they plan it weeks ahead of time. Once, after the battle and after her wand had backfired and blinded her, a Healer had told her that after a while, she would be able to recognize faces by touching them. Acne scars, the shape of the nose, eyebrows, the creases around eyes. Parvati knew when someone was very pretty, too, just by touching their face. And she knew now that there were terrible scars around her eyes from the rebounding curse.

It's very vain, she's lucky she's alive. But she wishes she could see, she wishes she were beautiful again, like Malati and Padma.

Seamus returns with a plate of what she had asked for, and she savors the taste of cinnamon in the bread pudding and the salty turkey and gravy. Someone else sits down on her other side, and she reaches out to find their face, in hopes of recognizing them. "Padma?"

"Close," comes Malati's voice. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Recognize people."

"It's easy."

"You're very phenomenal, you know that, right?" Malati goes on. "My friends in Romania know about you, and they'd really love to meet you."

"Hmm." Parvati tries not to sound dubious. Who in Merlin's name would want to meet her?

"I should come down more often," Malati continues. "I'm thinking on transferring down to the Welsh Dragonology Institute."

"What? Why? You love Romania."

"There are some...differences I've had with people there."

Parvati is ninety percent certain she means the row with Charlie Weasley, but she doesn't say so. It's dumb to quit your job, or move to another country, just because you break up with someone. Malati must be able to read her mind, or maybe it shows on her face, because she says quickly, "And I haven't been around enough lately."

"You're an adult, you don't have to come back," Parvati points out. "If you don't want to, I mean."

"I want to," Malati says defensively, "and even if I didn't, it's what I'm supposed to do. Sometimes we have to do the things we're supposed to do, instead of sit on our butts."

Parvati finishes eating and mulls over the words. This is why she loves her sister. She's honest and right when people don't want to hear it. It's probably the reason she and Weasley couldn't work things out.

"Do you want to open your presents now?" Mum asks.

Padma doesn't need to be told twice, and rips open a box before saying, "Malati, you really shouldn't have... You _really_ shouldn't have," bringing laughter from the rest of us.

Seamus hands her a large, heavy box. "Is this for me?" she asks, incredulous.

"Open it."

So she does. She pulls at the purely unnecessary ribbon that ties it and rips at the wrapping paper, until there's just another plastic box on her lap.

"What is it?"

"A record player," Malati says.

"Damn, these things are old," she says. "Thanks!"

"There's another present," Seamus goes on, handing her another. She opens it to find several hard, rectangular things in her hands.

"They're records," Mum says. "Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby, Nirvana-the people who you like."

"And there's one that's just instrumental," adds Dad. "So that you can learn more music from ear."

She wants to cry, because she never knew how much they actually thought about her.

They think about her a lot.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"I've never heard you play," Malati says. "Can you play for me now?"

"Of course," Parvati says, and she stands and makes her way to the Steinway, stumbling only once. She sits down on the piano bench and glides her fingers over the keys before beginning, relishing the cool ivory. She begins with the familiar tune of Canon in D, her skillful fingertips brushing the correct notes. She gets lost in the song, the way she has since she learned how to play, and she scarcely has to think to even get it right.

She remembers the day her parents bought it, when she was seven. Mum played jazz when she was a child, when her parents had just moved to Liverpool from New Delhi. She taught them how to play.

She remembers the day that she came home from St. Mungo's as she rushes past Middle C. Her parents told her that plenty of talented pianists were blind-Ronnie Milsap, Willie Johnson, Moondog, Stevie Wonder-but she'd declined the idea of becoming as good as they ever were, let alone touching the keys again.

Parvati thinks of all this as her hands shift in the D major, the all too famous tune filling their living room. She remembers Seamus telling her to try again, and when she did how horribly she sounded.

_"I can't! I can't!"_

_"Why not?" He sounds desperate._

_"I can't see! I can't see anything!"_

She remembers crying in Seamus's arms, and her hand twitches, and she hits the A note instead of B flat.

When the song is finally over, there's nothing but silence, and she worries that she did something wrong.

"Thanks, Parvati," Malati says, in a weird, strangled voice.

"No problem."

"Hey Mum, Dad? Can I go visit a friend of mine today?" Malati asks quickly. "I'll be back in a few hours, and I'll be here till next Thursday. I just gotta go see them."

"No problem," Dad says, and there's something like surprise in his voice.

The door opens and Malati slips out, leaving them all in the midst of piles of wrapping paper and cardboard boxes.

"Merry Christmas," Seamus says, and Parvati feels his hand lifting her head to his, and then his lips press to hers, and she breathes in all the sights she can't see.

* * *

><p><strong>Woo! Finally a happier chapter! This was actually really hard to write, I had to watch my adjectives, 'cause Parvati's blind. I'm thinking on doing a continuation of Dean's chapter as a separate fic, because I really liked Dean's character? But yeah, please review, and give me some feedback on if I should do the Dean thing.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Part six. So I sort of got inspiration for writing this one while pondering the Oscar Pistorius trial. Pistorius was my hero and a huge inspiration in my life, but I don't really know what to think of him now. **

* * *

><p><em>"I called you up, you were in bed,<br>_

_Could barely make out the words that you said._

_But you wanted to see me instead,_

_So I got dressed._

_And I stepped out into the snow,_

_And walked for a mile or so._

_Felt the rush of blood come from the cold in my chest. _

_Well, you finally came to the door,_

_And we talked for an hour or more,_

_Until I asked if you could stay up 'til four, _

_And you said, 'That's fine.'"_

_-Oh My Dear, Tenth Avenue North_

* * *

><p>Percy Weasley stands in total anger, trying not to lash out and jinx the person next to him.<p>

He'd been in politics since he'd left Hogwarts. Politics were agonizing but necessary, and agonizingly necessary, to someone like him. He'd poured himself over the works of Voltaire and Hobbes for hours on end, mulling over the frailty of the system and the scandals that rocked presidencies and led to coup d'états. He doesn't bother himself with the likes of Smith or Marx and economy and the development of government or revolutions or communism or democracy. Instead, he troubles himself with law and what it was today, and justice. That is his role in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He leads no armies and has no Auror training. He merely interprets law, and convicts those who deserve it, or likewise pardon.

His interest had began sometime during the Second Wizarding War, and heightened when Fred died. That had been when he'd transferred departments, and had since rose through the ranks. He'd kept a cool head in most trials. He'd never done anything too stupid.

But today, he's tempted to.

"I don't believe it," a witch behind him mutters. "House arrest, not Azkaban... Foolishness... They should bring back the Kiss..."

And while he may disagree in some parts of the witch's statement on a regular day, today he agrees wholeheartedly.

"This is ridiculous," he says under his breath.

He leaves the courtroom, his hands clenched as fists inside his pockets in an obvious effort not to hit something or someone. He doesn't even wait to see the Aurors drag him away.

"Him" being none other than Draco Malfoy.

He slips through the labyrinth of halls in an effort to find Hermione, who had left the trial midway through, in tears.

He finds her in one of the unoccupied courtrooms, staring blankly ahead from where she sits in the seat designated for Minister Shacklebolt. Her eyes are pink with tears, the veins red and more prominent than they should be. She is a ghost, paper white.

"Hermione," Percy hisses in a whisper. Which is stupid, as there is no one else in thE room to hear him apart from his words' target.

She doesn't respond, but merely stares ahead with the same unfocused gaze.

"Hermione," Percy repeats, his voice louder and stronger now. She blinks, but that's it. Nothing else to show that she had heeded him.

Percy curses under his breath and tarries up the stairs to her. "Hermione," he says, sitting down beside her. "Are you okay?"

A tear rolls down her cheek, and she lifts her hand to wipe it away hastily. It seems corny and cliché, the single tear type thing. The sort you could find in any romance novel. But Percy knows there's nothing romantic going on right now. Awkwardly he hugs her. Percy's never been good at this sort of thing. Helping people. Emotions.

Percy reads the torture reports. He knows the news. Erasable pain. Unendurable weight.

The bastard got off without Azkaban. He didn't even go to any sort of prison. A breach in justice of this magnitude... Inwardly he shudders at the complaints that'll come by the thousands to his office.

So he's taken by surprise at what she says.

"They're dead," she whispers, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. And Percy's heart plummets.

He'd kept himself out of Hogwarts since the war ended. He didn't want to see the headstones of those who had been buried on the grounds-his brother among the many names-nor the memorial dedicated to the Fifty Fallen. They all took their grief differently. Ron became more aggressive, to the point that it was rare when he didn't have blackened eyes. Ginny became subdued, and spends more time to herself. George drinks. Bill had began a novel, which is already nearly four hundred pages long at the moment. Charlie... Well, Charlie has a combination of everything, and had ever since he'd turned fourteen, at Hogwarts. And Percy is no exception. He swamps himself in work, doing everything he can to keep away from grief. He'd actually scheduled the trial for today, for Christmas, because he doesn't want to be home and see the ashen faces as they realize it's the first Christmas without Fred.

But today there's literally no way he can escape the past, even if he abandoned Hermione in the courtroom. Because he'd still be thinking about it.

"They're dead," she repeats. "Lupin and Fred and Tonks and Lavender and all of them." It had never occurred to him that Hermione had lost people that fateful May, but she had. He feels a stab of guilt at his lack of empathy.

"No they aren't," Percy tells her fiercely. "They'll never die, Hermione. Not truly."

She wipes her face with her sleeve, sniffling. "I'm sorry," she says hoarsely. "I'm sorry, Percy."

"It's fine." Is it?

"Thanks."

He nods shortly. There's not much else he trusts himself to do without breaking down.

"Let's go to the Burrow," she suggests several minutes later. Her voice sounds much stronger.

"Are you sure you want to?" Because he certainly doesn't want to.

"Yes," she says abruptly.

We Apparate. I knock on the door. Bill answers, and we hug. He holds on slightly too long, the way people do at funerals. Fleur smiles and offers me a quiet, inaudible greeting.

He shakes his head to rid himself of the thought and sits down next to Ron.

"Charlie's sitting there," Ron says.

"Charlie's here?"

"Somewhere," Ron answers, almost insolently.

Mum comes in and hugs me. I grimace. "It's so good you're here, Percy," she says. Dad doesn't say anything, but he smiles at me, his eyes warm.

"How'd the trial go, Percy?" Bill asks.

He tries not to look at Hermione. "Malfoy got off."

"You're kidding!" Ron says loudly, incredulous.

"I'm not," I reply wearily. Hermione says nothing.

"I can't believe it," Ron says angrily.

Charlie, who had come down the stairs earlier, sits down near me. He looks puzzled, but he doesn't ask anything.

"I don't get it," Bill says, shaking his head. "He confesses and he gets out of Azkaban? How is that even legal?" Percy thinks of Bill, sitting beside our brother, tears trickling down his face. He think of vengeance.

"It's not. The decree's been in the Wizengamot for nearly a year and they haven't changed it." They'd been trying to push the decree through the Wizengamot for amending, but there were enough supporters of the loophole decree to stall it.

"They need to get off their asses and do something," Ron says, his voice low. It almost sounds like something Fred would say, in one of the rare times the twins would be serious. And he's almost certain Fred and George would not be laughing now.

"In France we had nothing like thiz," Fleur agrees.

There's a knock at the door, and while it takes me a few heartbeats to discern it-_bloody hell, there's a knock on the door_-Mum is already up and at the door. Bill turns back to me. "Percy, why don't you just try to push the decree through? You're head of law enforcement, you have the authority, don't you?"

"Not even Shacklebolt has that authority," Dad says. "There are checks and balances, as there should be, and executive actions can't be made in an incident like this."

Mum drops her cup of eggnog. It spills and shatters.

"Mum?"

"What is it?"

"George!" she says shrilly.

"George?!"

"George is here?!"

They surge to the door, and he feels a mix of emotions rolling inside him. George left them, he doesn't want to see George, he misses George.

But there is his brother, collapsed in Mum's arms, sobbing.

* * *

><p>It takes a long time for George to become steady and stable enough to sit at the table for the Christmas dinner. His hands seem to have a permanent tremor to them, and he reeks of something foul. We sit at the table in almost silence, but something seems happier about having George here today. Harry sits between the estranged brother and Ron.<p>

"How's work going, Charlie?" Dad asks. I notice he hasn't looked directly at George yet.

"Good," Charlie says. "We caught a Swiss Smokenose north of Bucharest a few weeks ago; that's been the biggest thing lately. There's an Ukrainian Ironbelly burning up fields, but we haven't been able to find her yet."

"Hmm."

Percy eats slowly, savoring the taste of Mum's Shepherd's pie. He glances across the table at George.

Where has his brother been?

It scares him when he realizes he doesn't want to know the answer.

He thinks of all the times he told his brothers he hated them. He can only remember one time that he had meant it.

_"I hate you!"_

_"Bloody hell, we hate you too!"_

It had been the day he and Dad had gotten in a row. He had been leaving. Then he had left, and the last time he had been able to see Fred had been minutes before he died.

Tears sting his eyes, but he blinks them away.

There's a loud popping noise. Someone had Apparated here.

"Who could that be?" Mum says irritably, standing. "Honestly, this is getting ridiculous!"

Ginny smiles. "The notion of guests is truly mortifying," she says, putting on a posh accent. We all laugh.

From the living room, Mum says, "There's someone in our yard."

"What?"

"Arthur, someone's walking in our yard."

"Who?"

"A girl," Mum says, sounding confused. "Come look."

We exchange glances and follow Dad to the living room. I peer out the window over Harry's shoulder. It takes a heartbeat for my eyes to adjust to the light reflecting off of the snow, and then I see her.

She's breathtakingly beautiful, but not in the way Fleur is. She has long, dark hair tucked underneath a cap. She walks up the driveway wearing a black cloak against the blistering wind.

"Who is _that_?" Percy asks.

Charlie pushes past me to look through the window. His eyes widen, and roughly he shoves me to make his way to the door.

"Charlie? Where are you going?" Mum asks, a note of grief and worry in her voice.

He doesn't hear her, or otherwise ignores her, and continues. He throws open the door and runs outside, down the drive. We watch, plastered to the window, as he races down the gravel path towards her. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him.

Bill claps, and the rest of us quickly take it up. I catch sight of George, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.


End file.
